


The Iris Needle

by LadyFeste



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demigod!Stiles, Experimental, Gen, and it is more of an X is a demigod fic than an actual crossover, intellectual lust?, this should be fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is used to strange even before he gets his best friend bitten by a werewolf. He deals with strange every day. But finding out that werewolves exist brings a whole new level of strange to his life. These werewolves don't fit the myth, and if he's going to be fighting across mythologies, he wants something that will defend him a bit better than sarcasm does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline from the PJO series is badly fudged. In the beginning I tried my best to make it fit, but when I realized I needed summer to be over while Percy and Annabeth are still out on their way to Greece, I just said "forget it, I don't care anymore, let's just go." So this is AU, in which Camp Half-Blood meets the Romans in the fall and the deadline for the Heroes of Olympus to finish their quest is actually in December or something. So the timeline actually runs The Last Olympian, then Teen Wolf seasons 1 and 2, then HoO up until MoA, then season 3 and MoA run almost congruently.
> 
> This is an extremely experimental style that involves the story being told completely out of order in 200 word chunks, bouncing back and forth across timelines and points of view, but always told in present tense. I'll be updating five chunks--1000 words--at a time. It's a bit confusing at first, but you do get used to it.

She wanted him. She wanted him more than she had wanted nearly any other man in her life. It wasn’t the intelligence she was drawn to this time, but this man was a _warrior. Styx, what a warrior,_ though never a solider. He had the mind and heart and _soul_ of a war hero, and _she wanted him._

But he was _married,_ and to the love of his life, too, which would have been much more romantic if she hadn’t wanted him as badly as she did. He would never betray his wife, not in a thousand years, not even with a virgin goddess and no actual infidelity taking place. He was that sort of man.

But _she_ wanted children, his perfect, flawless love. That was her in, that the woman wanted children, and for some reason it wasn’t happening. She snuck into the hospital, playing the part of the dutiful nurse, and nearly crowed for joy when the happy couple found out the wife was infertile.

That was her in, her way to his glorious warrior soul. “I can help you, Mr. and Mrs. Stillinski,” she said as the doctor left, her grey eyes flashing. “My name is Athena.”

* * *

“Werewolf,” he says, and he’s joking of course, because that’s impossible. It’s a funny joke, though. He kills no less than three monsters on his way home from school (Scott’s at work, though he wouldn’t have noticed anything even if they were walking together) and by the time he’s home and in his room, the joke’s not so funny. Mostly because he can’t get it out of his head.

He puts his sword in its sheath under his bed and mourns the loss of a throwing knife, not that he was any good with them anyway, and hops on the computer. He starts off just fooling around, but it turns to articles on werewolves and after hours and hours of reading, all the symptoms fit together like a sick puzzle and it’s not a joke anymore.

It’s still ridiculous, because most of the mythos is not Greek and beyond him, and he still prays it isn’t true. Because werewolves are monsters and demigods kill monsters and Stiles does not want to kill his best (his _only)_ friend.

But he knows Scott, and hurting someone would make Scott wish himself dead. Stiles digs out an old silver knife, just in case.

* * *

“What could kill a werewolf?” he asks Deaton, his eyes on the floor, foot tapping, unable to keep his hands still. He tries to act as if it was just one of his “questions,” but he feels as though that won’t work on whatever Deaton is.

The vet fixes him with a stern glance. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because everything that’s come after us seems to start and stop with werewolves,” he says, his face making it seem _oh so obvious_ even if he still won’t meet Deaton’s eyes. “I mean, first there was an alpha wolf and now there’s this kanima thing and Derek says it sometimes happens when a bite doesn’t take and I’d _really_ like to have something to fight with other than sarcasm.”

Deaton stares at him and he pulls the Mist closer out of instinct, like it’s some kind of security blanket. For a moment he thinks his “innocent” question is seen for what it is, but the vet turns away and begins pointing out things on the vials behind the counter. “Wolfsbane and Mountain Ash, of course. Mistletoe, rye grains.”

“Lame.” But he’s already thinking about what he could and couldn’t use.

* * *

“So your children are born of…thought?” Mr. Stilinski says and she has trouble concentrating because he’s so tense yet _accepting_ of the knowledge of Greek gods and goddesses roaming the earth and his warrior heart is shining through his eyes and _focus, Athena._

“Of meetings between divine thought and mortal ingenuity,” she says, careful to smile both at him and his darling soul mate. She is lovely and kind and fits into all the cracks in him, as if born for his side, but Athena can only see her as an obstacle. “There would be no action but conversation. The child would be biologically mine and yours, Mr. Stilinski, and would be born from my head.”

Mrs. Stilinski looks suspicious—and rightfully so, Athena can respect that. “What do you want in return?” she asks.

“Only the chance to talk with your husband,” she says, and the woman’s eyes blaze with understanding—but no malice.

Mr. Stilinski is frowning, however. “Look, it’s very…kind…of you to offer this, but…I don’t really have ingenuity.”

She smiles wider, because he’s practically _glowing_ with the same spark she saw in Odysseus and Jason, eons ago. “On the contrary,” she says. “You’re afire with it.”

* * *

Metal strikes metal as the hammer falls. Sparks fly and a dent is worked out of the much-abused sword. Now that the Curse on Cabin Nine had been lifted, she is rarely out of the forges.

This is where she’s at her best, brightest, most vibrant, and Stiles loves to watch her work. He has very little idea what anything means or does or gets used for, but she’s his friend and forging makes her come alive and he loves seeing that in people. He sees it in his father when he’s working, he sees it in Isaac when he’s around people he trusts, he sees it in Scott when he talks about Allison, which is the only reason Stiles stomachs the mushy talk.

That’s why _she_ had to be the one to do it. Oh, there were myriad reasons—she was different like him, she was his friend and would listen to him, she was the best blacksmith in camp—but ultimately it was because smithing was her passion and she would pour her joy into whatever she was making.  

But first he has to get her to make something. “Hannah,” he says, “I need to talk to you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Athena recommends they do not tell Stiles anything about his lineage for as long as possible, being so close to the entrance to the Underworld, but Stiles being Stiles that doesn’t work so well. He’s six when he first suspects something’s not right with his family, in that small, unsettling way that precocious, clever six-year-olds sense familial problems. The problem isn’t that Daddy and Mommy aren’t in love—they are, _disgustingly_ —it’s that no one says he looks like Mommy and everyone says Scott looks like his Mommy. So why doesn’t Stiles look like his?

He’s seven when he begins asking if he’s adopted.

He’s seeing monsters at eight. They can’t quite pick up his scent yet, but he sees them, and when their eight-year-old starts pointing at nothing and crying, they know the secret won’t be secret long.

At nine the monsters notice him, and the sheriff has reason to use the celestial bronze bullets Athena gifted them so long ago. His mother cries as they tell him the truth. He crawls into her lap, even though he’s too big and she’s been getting headaches, and promises that Athena, whom he already doesn’t like, will never be his Mom.

* * *

Lycaon, King of Arcadia, is first and worst. Vicious, bloodthirsty, sick, twisted, demented, cruel, always finding little ways to act upon his nature until he found the excuse to do something truly vile. He doubted the gods, and wanted to prove they were not all-knowing. He played kind and invited Zeus to a feast in honor of the Olympians. Flattered and suspicious, Zeus accepted.

Lycaon took one of his sons hunting, to catch the main course of the feast. Nothing but the best for the king of the gods. Then, when they’d hiked out of earshot of the palace, he’d slaughtered his son, dressed the corpse, and brought the meat into the kitchens with excuses to dismiss the boy’s absence. Zeus knew what Lycaon had done as soon as the meal began, and watched in horror as he began to eat.

Zeus flew into a rage at Lycaon’s actions and killed the remainder of the king’s family with lightning, destroying his line forever. His kingdom was divided, his palace destroyed. Because his deeds were better fitting of beast than man, Lycaon himself was transformed into a thing that was not quite either but could be both. Thus were werewolves born.

* * *

It’s a basic fact of the mythology of wolf men that silver is one of the only metals on earth that can harm them, and harm them well it does.  The touch of silver is like fire to the skin of a werewolf, and though celestial bronze passes right through them, a single good strike of a silver dagger is enough to finish one off completely.

But Deaton says (and later, secret, _very careful_ experimentation backs up) that silver does not harm werewolves at all—that that is a myth with no standing in real life. Not that werewolves should even have a standing in real life.

Stiles researches further, reading and rereading stories and accounts until he could recite them in his sleep. All confirm—silver kills werewolves, plain and simple.

Then he runs into one of Lycaon’s wolves and uses that silver knife he’s not quite been able to dump just yet and the silver kills it quickly despite what Deaton and hard proof have said.

And Lycaon’s wolf looks nothing like Scott _or_ the mysterious alpha.

And Stiles, stiff and suddenly terrified, begins to believe that the Greek cycles are not the only ones that ring true.

* * *

 _He’s adorable_ , Athena can’t help but think as she studies the couple talking quietly in the corner. And yes, perhaps she is keeping an eye more on the mister than the missus, but she can’t help it. He’s adorable the way a young lion is. Mane growing in patches, claws in need of a good trim, a look of bewilderment on his panting features, but somewhere in the back of your mind you know he’s nothing but muscle and tooth and claw and could rip you to pieces if he felt like it.

They huddle closer together, the wife putting a tender hand on her husband’s arm and whispering into his ear. Athena frowns. It’s a shame that they’re married, really, because the goddess feels she could have been friends, or at least friendly, with this woman who walks with more grace than Aphrodite and wears a smile like a sunrise.

It’s Mrs. Stilinski who steps forward when the two reach their decision, something Athena had expected. “We agree,” she says, holding her husband’s hand behind her back, and smiles. Athena smiles back, feeling uncharacteristically shy in the face of such a union.

Her child will be in good hands.

* * *

Hannah Muren is, in recent days, the only child of Hephaestus left who prefers working with raw material to building and tinkering. Not that that’s not nice every once in a while, but she’s a blacksmith at heart. Stiles knows this, and knows that’s where best to strike.

“It’s something _new,_ Hannah,” he insists, his hands dancing in the air in contrast to hers folded tightly across her chest. “You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to experiment a little.”

“Well, yeah, a _little_ ,” she argues. “But I’ve been over your designs…look, I know you get a lot of slack as far as the rules go, being ‘that one freak who lives next door to Hades,’ but this seems dangerous, even for you.”

“It’s not—“

“It is! Where did you even _find_ half those runes? I did some searching when you gave me those plans to look at—only one set of those symbols is Greek, and that’s a _spell—“_

“Okay, maybe it is dangerous, but Hannah…” His voice drops even lower, and she leans in to hear the pained admission. “The things I’m running into are crossing mythologies. I need a weapon that works the same way.” 


	3. Chapter 3

It isn’t as if he has enough trouble, living so close to the door to the Underworld. Stiles has to put up with three times the monsters of most demigods who don’t go on quests. The worst monsters usually go out into the world in search of demigods with more scent—Stiles is very good at hiding—but not always. And the little ones that come his way keep him plenty busy.

Apparently, he now has to deal with Celtic legends that have somehow wound up at his back door, and he doesn’t take to it well. Stiles isn’t a great fighter by any stretch of imagination, and most of the people at Camp Half-Blood are genuinely surprised he doesn’t end up dead during the school year. He’s always been able to hold his own, albeit just barely. He doesn’t often best his fellow demigods in combat, but he always puts up a good fight. He could probably take Jackson on and win, though he doesn’t want to test the theory.

Against the Alpha werewolf in this mythology, both older and newer than his own, he has no defense. He has never felt more helpless.

He doesn’t like the feeling.

* * *

He’s considered telling Scott about his parentage for years, and since Scott was bitten and opened himself up to the idea of the supernatural, the urge to tell all has gotten stronger. But there’s never a good time to add to his friend’s burdens. So he does what he always does. He fights his own demons, surrounds himself in Mist, and does whatever Scott needs him to do.

Then the alpha pack arrives and the weight of the Needle strapped to his calf seems to grow every time Derek or Isaac looks at him like he’s a liability, and he knows, _he knows_ he ought to tell them that, to a fair extent, he can take care of himself now.

But he still doesn’t.

He doesn’t because the alphas have declared war on the Hale pack and even _Scott_ looks at him like he’s still an innocent, something to be revered and protected and kept away from all the bad things in the world. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them he’s been already been through one war, and has seen more blood in the back defense lines of New York than Derek has in his brutal werewolf childhood.

* * *

He’s a crap-demigod. It’s the truth, and he can’t avoid it, not with his half-siblings tossing it in his face so often. Not on purpose—but the other children of Athena are so _good_ at _everything,_ so clever and wise. Stiles wishes he were more like them sometimes, just so he would feel comfortable in his own cabin and in his own skin.

He admits to himself that that’s part of why he finds Lydia so attractive—that she’s more like what he’s supposed to be. That like his mother, he’s drawn to geniuses and warriors. That attraction is very nearly all she gave him, too.

He suspects the reason he’s always been so much _less_ than other demigods is because he technically wasn’t wanted—his father wanted children, but not with _her,_ and his mother wanted his father, not a son—but he doesn’t dare say such a thing aloud. It would hurt his mom and break his father and anger his mother, and he doesn’t want that.

He’s fine being a crap-demigod, really. It’s being a crap-demigod at camp and a nothing-mortal at school that bothers him. There’s no way for him to be truly _good_ at anything.

* * *

He’s twelve when he finds his “Athena gene,” the little niche where all his wise blood seems to have been directed. He can research, work with statistics, connect dots, gather information, find patterns, get perfect hunches. He’s a natural detective, and his parents are proud beyond words.

He’s the only Child of Athena to be blessed with such gifts and detective skills are useless in battle. He’s met with derision from his half-siblings and most of the rest of the camp, too, despite the respect he holds from living so close to the Underworld and still being alive.

But he can shape the Mist better than anyone else in the camp, including Chiron and on good days even Mr. D. He can make almost anyone see almost anything and he revels in the ability.

Until he starts using it to lie to his father. Oh, he tells all manner of tales about scraps with monsters to excuse bruises and absences because that’s normal. But when he starts turning up at crime scenes and he can see suspicions rising, he begins wearing the Mist like a favorite hoodie and he _hates_ how comfortably it settles on his shoulders _. Werewolves ruin everything._

* * *

“I wanna talk to my dad first,” Hannah says finally, pushing hair back from her eyes. “And I want you to talk to your mother, too.”

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes at the advice. “What does Mother have to do with it?”

“If this works the way you want it to, we’ll have created a weapon the like of which hasn’t been made outside of heavenly forges, and not since ancient times. I don’t want to move forward without the gods’ blessing.”

“Will they even listen to us? Last time I checked, they were a little preoccupied with the whole Greco-Roman…thing.”

She shrugs. “Dad’s been fine, and if your mother can stop sulking long enough to send people on quests, I think she can give you an okay.”

“Fine. I’ll ask. I’m sure she’ll say yes. She’s always trying to dote on me for Dad’s sake.”

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. She loves you. Your kind of smart is different. She likes that. All gods like different.”  He cocks an eyebrow at her, one corner of his mouth turning up. She sighs. “Fine, believe what you want. The sooner you ask, the sooner we can start.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This completely turned into "Angsty Stiles Backstory Hour," sorry about that.


	4. Chapter 4

He starts by gathering a list of things that he knows will hurt a werewolf, and that can be used, some way or other, as a weapon. He tosses out the idea of rye grains right off, leaving him with wolfsbane, mistletoe, and mountain ash. He considers forgetting the ash until he finds out the leaves and berries work as the wood. He adds nightshade and henbane to the list, just because they’re poisonous. Poison will slow or even stop healing in a werewolf, and he may come across something _else_ that doesn’t adhere to a strict mythology.

With the money his mom had left him in a special account for demigod needs, he buys up all the sterling silver he can and has it blessed, as a bonus. It takes him a month to figure out _exactly_ what would be best in iron and two months to find it. It costs him an arm and a leg, but it’s worth it.

It takes another three months to find out what symbols to use, but by the time he comes to camp, his plans are drawn and written and ready. All he needs is someone crazy enough to forge it.

* * *

He’s nine when Mom starts getting headaches, and ten when Dad insists she see a doctor about them. It’s a tumor, the doctor’s say, and though Stiles doesn’t really understand much—and having to deal with blossoming identity issues involving Mom being a sick mortal and Mother being an ages-old Greek goddess isn’t helping in that respect—but he does understand that within six months of diagnosis, his mom’s hair is gone.

At eleven, he and his father both shave their heads to match Mom’s, and she laughs until she cries.

(She may be crying more for her husband’s hair than Stiles’. Stiles can _rock_ the buzz cut. His father, not so much. He lets it grow back after the funeral. Athena is pleased.)

She lives long enough to see him figure out how exactly Athena’s wisdom manifested in him, but she’s still dead before his thirteenth birthday. His father’s a mess, Athena’s too busy poking around that Jackson kid to comfort him, and Scott’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. When his father suggests they move somewhere safer, Stiles refuses. His mom’s grave is in Beacon Hills, and Scott has proven himself to be worth the monsters.

* * *

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Stiles says, plopping himself down on the floor next to Scott and bumping his shoulder. “I mean, I didn’t really want to interrupt your little werewolf sulk, but it’s getting a little weird now.”

Scott chuckles in spite of himself. “Are you just going to add ‘little werewolf’ to everything you associate me with now?”

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. “Actually, that was just me noticing that your little werewolf sulk is different than your little Scott sulk. So what’s up, anyway?”

The little werewolf hits his head against the wall behind him. “Just…not looking forward to this summer. Allison’ll be gone, Jackson’ll be gone, _you’ll_ be gone…it’ll be lonely with just Derek and his pack, and half of them aren’t even talking to me. It’s not like I have any other friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says, quirking an eyebrow. “Except that’s a Scott sulk.”

He sighs. “I was just…worrying. If werewolves and kanimas exist, maybe other stuff does too, you know? And I know Allison can defend herself, but I still worry, and I can’t protect you or her if you’re away.”

“I’ll be fine, trust me. Boot camp, remember?” He laughs, but it’s a hollow sound.

* * *

Iris has delegated most of her work onto her favorite, ever-competent cloud nymph Fleecy, but the messages between gods still require a personal touch. It’s Hermes’ job, technically, but Hermes is overly sympathetic to mortal causes—especially after the war and his son’s death—and isn’t always trusted to keep his mouth shut. For more private or casual conversations, Iris still offers her services. She keeps up the store, but serving others will always be a part of her image.

Iris has a habit of… _eavesdropping_ on the more interesting IMs and messages between the gods, however, and it’s a conversation between Hephaestus and Athena that holds her attention now. Athena flickers like mad between the grey-eyed warrior and the weak Minerva, and her words sometimes require translation, anyway. Iris learns of a pair of ambitious demigods seeking their own identity, just as she is. And after a little peeking into the personal life of the Stilinski boy, she becomes _enthralled._ It’s better than a TV show, his life, and much more dangerous. And his best friend is a monster yet he’s only attacked out of necessity. He’s remarkably like one of her own children and she vows to help, somehow.

* * *

Athena doesn’t _speak_ to him so much as give him a sign indicating her approval of his weapon-making ideas. He scampers off to the forges as soon as the owl flies off, and finds Hannah already there, lighting her fires. “Mother’s given me her blessing,” he pants, leaning against the door frame. “Will you do it?”

She turns to him, nerves making her chew her bottom lip despite the excitement shining in her eyes. “Dad said he wants to look at it when it’s finished, before you take it, and if I do well, he’ll invite me to study at his forges for a year.”

He grins. “That’s great! It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

She nods and gnaws harder on her lip. “Yeah, it is…but there’s someone else, too.”

His eyebrows furrow as a middle-aged woman in a tie dyed dress steps into the light from the other side of the forge. “Stiles,” she says warmly. “I’m Iris.”

“Butch’s mom? Rainbow goddess?” he asks, hair standing on end.

“Yep. I heard about your little… _problem,_ and brought some things to give this blade of yours a little more of a kick.”

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“For starters, like _me._ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no self control. I'm sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is cutting in this chapter. No gore, just an action. It's in the last drabble, and it's not self-harmy, it's we-need-this-for-a-ritual-thingy, but I wanted to warn you, just in case.

Sheriff Stilinski tests his bonds for the thousandth time, straining against the ropes holding him to the support beam.

“You’re just going to hurt yourself,” Chris Argent says, his eyes closed.

The sheriff shrugs. “Doesn’t seem to be stopping you from trying again.” All three of them had been trying, but the ropes are tied too tightly.

Melissa McCall sighs and stares at the dirt ceiling. “Penny for your thoughts?” Mr. Stilinski asks, still twisting around.

“I’ve been figuring out how long each of our hospital stays will be when we get out of here,” she says, a wry smile touching her lips. “Is it just me, or is the boredom the worst of it?”

Chris grunts in agreement and slouches as best he can, but the Stilinski man stays silent and tense, eyeing the shadows around them. He knows well the _other_ things that hid in the dark and dank places, invisible to mortal eye, _especially_ in California. He wonders how many monsters are surrounding them even now. The Darach thing took his gun and the clip of celestial bronze bullets on his belt. When Stiles comes—and he knows Stiles will find them—he hopes he comes armed. 

* * *

Stiles has been going away to summer camp ever since the boys were nine. Scott hated it the first few years because it meant long, dull summers of fiddling around with a lacrosse stick by himself in his back yard, for _months,_ and with a _babysitter._ It was lonely and it made him feel stupid, and he _missed_ Stiles. They wrote to each other, but it wasn’t the same. And Stiles wasn’t very good at writing back. He never really said much about camp in his letters, just that he was really busy and really tired and never got much of a chance to write.

After they got older, Scott didn’t like it because Stiles always looked different when he came back. Sure, sometimes, it was just watching his best friend grow up and change when he wasn’t there. But sometimes it was the faraway look in his eyes and the hazy, distracted smiles, and the jaw set as if in anger or after some kind of long torment.

But Stiles had some kind of bizarre loyalty to his summer home, and continued to go even in high school, and Scott could respect that, even if he didn’t like it.

* * *

Stiles blames himself for the mechanic’s death. Sure, he didn’t know what the kanima was, didn’t know it whether it was Celtic or Greek or Native American (he’s found one of those since he started keeping his eyes open for non-Greek creatures) or something completely new, but he did know it was there with him. He could feel it in the air, the whole Mist buzzing _monster, monster, be alert._ And he was alert, reaching for the sword hidden in his backpack and everything, but not alert enough and infinitely too slow. Paralyzed, he curses himself and watches while a man dies a death he could have prevented.

(The death itself doesn’t bother him as much as it should have. He has fought titans and watched friends and siblings being bled and crushed and ripped apart.)

He doubles the time he spends researching his “little project,” or so he’s been calling it ever since his episode with Lycaon’s Wolf before the death of Peter Hale. He may be one of the worst demigods Camp Halfblood has produced, but he hasn’t been _useless_ since his mother became ill, and he will _not_ stand for it any longer than he has to.

* * *

She will admit she is having problems. Her head barely feels like her own, with all the switching from insignificant crafter to the powerful goddess of war. She has constant headaches and she can barely hold one thought together at once. All of the gods are struggling with Greek and Roman division, but she is the only one truly debilitated.

Her thoughts are almost always on Annabeth and the Mark, but when a reluctant prayer flits up to her ears, she pauses and forces herself to pay attention.

It’s the Stilinski boy, the one with the perfect warrior father she still has dreams about. This in itself is odd enough for her to hold her Greek form long enough to listen. He never speaks to her if he can help it. And perhaps she’s been neglecting him in turn, she realizes, as he explains why he needs her blessing.

She does not say yes then. She is not firm enough in form for that, her thoughts too full of Annabeth. But she does send a message to Hephaestus. Whether it is for love of her son or of his father, she does not attend before flickering back to Minerva again.

* * *

Iris returns when Hannah begins working, and brings with her a large barrel. “What’s in there?” Stiles asks, watching Hannah prep her forge. This is one of the few times his schedule—and Hannah—will allow him to watch the forging of the sword he’s been planning for the last six months.

Iris pats the barrel. “It’s your poison concoction, brewed into water from the river Styx.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and Hannah gasps and drops her hammer. “I’m supposed to work with _that?_ ” she whispered.

“I told you I’d add some kick to your work. Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it. Gathering Styx water is in my job description. Cooling and tempering with this won’t make anything stygian, but it will bond the poison to metal.” She opens the barrel and pulls a knife out of her pocket. A quick slice and golden ichor drips steadily into the dark water. “The blood of a goddess ought to mix quite nicely with that, don’t you think? Particularly mixed with the demigod blood you’d already planned for.” She fixes Stiles with a pointed look and hands him a second blade.

Stiles gulps, takes it, closes his eyes, and cuts his arm open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. This is the problem with having no self control--long breaks in between spastic updates. Also, I'm multi-fandom and cast my eyes to another thing. And school started. Sorry again.


End file.
